


I'll Sing a Zong to Restlessness of Water

by fighterofthenightman



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, Sunless Sea
Genre: Ambition: The Zong of the Zee, Angst, Humor, M/M, One Shot, POV First Person, Route: Wolfstack Docks (Fallen London), attempts at Victorian-style purple prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:49:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24594817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fighterofthenightman/pseuds/fighterofthenightman
Summary: I'd spent every evening this past week in drink and rereadings of the poem; a very bohemian way of life, certain to lead nowhere good. Yet the Zong beckoned me, like a drownie's call; I felt helpless to resist it.A story of a poet, an urchin, and a Zong that's too big and beautiful for one mortal to write.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 6





	I'll Sing a Zong to Restlessness of Water

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this mostly for my own amusement, as a means of fleshing out my current and my previous zee-captain's backstory all in one go. Something of a character/Ambition study, set mostly in Fallen London..

I knew even when I first saw him that Lemuel Lonnergan was neither suited for, nor long for, this sinful world. He had about him the look of a penniless romantic: a sort of hunger in the face that, I think, is often a mark of an early and tragic undoing.

Still — what a delectable boy: lithe, clear-skinned, all teeth intact. He was the one to approach me; I would never, in my life, have chosen such slim pickings for a mark... but I never say no to a gift horse. I bought us a beer each and got down to the task of securing myself a bed for the night. Penniless he might look, but homeless he was probably not.

All my assumptions were correct. Lemuel was a lodger at the Helmsman — which explained his incongruous presence at the pub — and an author by trade, eking out a living by penning newspieces and satires for a third-rate gazetteer. He was at the docks scouting for material; he thought I could help him with local gossip. (At that point I wished I hadn't paid for the beers; if I was to do his work for him, the least he could do was supply me with alcohol.)

Still, he was good company and, like I said, rather handsome. I'm sure he thought me handsome too; there was no other reason to pick me for interrogating, as I looked more like a gentleman than a dock worker. I had, of course, just spent a full ten hours at Wolfstack — first helping out with a minor smuggling operation and then gambling my earnings in a round or three of dice — but I'd changed into more "respectable" attire for the evening's activities. After all, the greatest trick the devils ever pulled was to dress in top hats and suits.

"I could tell you more about the current events if we — well, became more intimate acquaintances," I said at length. Not my subtlest come-on, surely, but veiled enough to give both me and him an out. He flushed; he ordered another round; he took me upstairs.

I'm no gentleman, but I am in the habit of pretending to be one, and my morals forbid me from detailing what transpired in that sad dank room above the pub. I will say it was time well-spent and leave it at that. Afterwards, as I was being inexorably pulled into deep slumber, I felt Lemuel stir next to me on the narrow cot. "You did promise to tell me more," he said. "Tomorrow," I mumbled, and that was that.

***

"Tomorrow" became a refrain; like Scheherazade, I always left Lemuel wanting more tales of the docks. I became something of his informant, so to say, in exchange for nights spent at his place — an arrangement whose terms and perks suited us both. Once or twice a week he would seek me out for news and solace, and I obliged him every time.

Lemuel was a good writer — not great, perhaps, but well above the hordes of Fallen London authors. He was a poet as well, although he explained that verses tended to pay even worse than prose. "I do pick up better commissions at the Mandrake — odes to the Traitor Empress and so forth — but these are drivel — pure shit — they make me sick!"

He was red-faced, stumbling over words, evidently agitated. I felt for him, at that moment, a certain tenderness; a sentiment both atypical and unwelcome, as it tends to make fools of all. "Read some for me", I said, unbidden. "Your personal poems, I mean. I do hope they don't _all_ involve the occupants of the Palace."

He smiled at that last remark. I believe he'd been hungry for an audience, for he was all too quick to recite a couple of couplets. I noted, in a detached sort of way, that they were witty and well-worded; yet none stirred any deep emotion within me until —

" _...I'll sing a Zong to restlessness of water, the way it changes shape at every turn._ " I blinked, dazed. This last poem was unlike others; longer, better and more beautiful than the verses before. "It's...unfinished", I said, having collected my thoughts. "But a true gem in the making. I am honored to have heard it."

He pinked at the praise and averted his eyes. "I can't finish it yet; I have no personal experience of the zee, and I would hate to use someone else's... My father was a zee-captain, you know." (I did not know.) "I think I have inherited his zee-fever. It's silly," he hastened to add, for he must have seen me frown in disbelief, "but it is true. It's the reason I live here and volunteer for all these dock assignments; it makes me feel closer to him, somehow." He fell silent; I did not press him. At length, he went on: "He died at the zee; I have his ship still — I've been saving money, for repairs and crew. I'm sure some zailing will do wonders for my work. I know that I could write the most magnificent Zong of the Zee afterwards."

I was stunned and uncomfortable; he had bared too much of his soul for me. "There may be no afterwards," I said, taking care to sound neutral and unmoved. I was neither: I could see all too clearly a cold, dark death that awaited the boy, for the zee is unforgiving and death in its depths is final. "You could tell your father's story, you know; surely you are the best person to do so."

Again, he averted his eyes. "Perhaps. But I'd really prefer to tell my own. After all, I am the captain of my zoul."

I laughed a little, despite myself. "Please don't ever say zoul in public; you're bound to get a fist in the face." At that, he laughed as well, and changed the subject; and I thought the matter forgotten.

***

We saw less of each other the following weeks; I found myself wondering if I had hurt his feelings with unwanted — if well-meaning — advice. Still, whenever we did meet, he was as excellent towards me as ever, and eventually I did get an explanation as to his change of habits. "I'm sorry I've been neglecting the docks, dear fellow; I've been taking commissions at the Mandrake and working night and day — all terrible stuff, but they do pay well. I hope I have not inconvenienced you." By that time, I believe he had surmised that I both lacked lodgings of my own and was too proud to move in with him.

He went on: "Actually, I wanted to ask you to look after the room for me, while I'm gone. I'd rather there was someone there — keeping it lived-in, and so on and so forth." I stared at him, dumbfounded. Despite lightness of tone, he looked serious. "I am zailing out to zee — a little trip, no further than the Canal — I'm sure you understand. I have to try, at least, now that I have the funds, or I'll never know rest." My feelings, such as they were, must have shown too clearly on my face, for his speech became fast and conciliatory: "It shouldn't be too difficult, I don't think — the Western Shore is well-zailed and safe. I'll be back before you know it."

I thought not, and I was right; but he was his own man, and he made his own choice.

***

"How did it happen?" I asked the Admiralty clerk, trying to keep my voice level. She'd come to my — Lemuel's — room, explaining that the man was dead and I his inheritor.

The clerk didn't look up from the papers. "A pirate gang and a busted engine — the usual, really. Please sign here." I did so, thus gaining possession of a wreck of a ship and a scrap of a map. I looked at the woman, trying to decide whether she was worth seducing — for Admiralty connections if nothing else — and she caught my eye and smiled. "Please don't try anything on me, or I shall become quite disagreeable. The ship is in bad condition, I'm afraid, but the Admiralty is willing to reimburse the repairs in return for a small and perfectly legal favour. I realize you're shaken, but please come by the offices tomorrow for further discussion." She left; I went down to the pub and drank myself to unconsciousness.

***

"I never knew you for a suicide-case", the Longshanks Gunner said as we stood looking at the ship being repaired. "Daring, yes — but suicidal? You've been spending too much time with poets, methinks."

"That, or maybe zee-fever is in fact a venereal disease."

Gunner imitated gagging. "You're a pig. How anybody falls for this whole gentleman act is beyond me."

"At least pigs are excellent swimmers," I said quietly. We looked on as workers fussed over the steamer; she was quite a nice ship, all things considered.

Eventually, I could bear the silence no longer. "Well, it's not like one is born a zee-captain. I feel like I owe it to him, if nothing else. I could have — talked him out of it, or gone to zail with him. I failed him, and I failed his Zong." My throat was closing up; I felt quite foolish and irrational.

Gunner patted me one the shoulder; she was shorter than me, so the action looked a bit comical, and I smiled despite myself. "It's not your fault," she said, "and the Zong can wait for a different person."

"Perhaps," I replied, doubtful. I'd lost the man; I couldn't bear to lose his beautiful words as well. I'd spent every evening this past week in drink and rereadings of the poem; a very bohemian way of life, certain to lead nowhere good. Yet the Zong beckoned me, like a drownie's call; I felt helpless to resist it. I even tried adding my own verses, but my lack of zeefaring knowledge coloured them lifeless and inept: the winds of the Flit attics are no substitute for the winds of the zee. Still, the words haunted me, burned on the backs of my eyelids like sunlight.

Gunner had grown up alongside me, and there was no one as attuned to my thoughts and feelings as she. Now, too, she read my dark mood easily. "If you zail — and I do think it profoundly stupid, but if you zail — I will zail with you."

"Really," I said, not quite believing my luck.

"Really." She smiled. "I did always want to visit Khan's Shadow."

***

Gunner got her wish, eventually, several voyages in: not merely visiting Khan's Shadow, but choosing to build a life there. By that time, I was employing a number of capable, well-educated officers, so her loss hit me emotionally rather than materially; I promised to visit every once in a while and didn't look back as the ship departed Khanate waters.

I only let sadness envelop me as we entered Fallen London. Gunner and I normally went carousing at Wolfstack docks after every successful zailing, but this was not a tradition I wanted to share with any of the newer officers, who would do well to never see their captain three sheets to the wind. I retired to the Helmsman lonely and alone, deciding on a pint before bed. As I was looking for a chair, I noticed a dapper chap sitting all alone at one of the tables.

Like I said before, I am no gentleman, though I can pass for one; and neither was he, despite making an admirable effort. He was fresh-faced and clean-cut, but I could see something of the Flit in him — the sly turn of the mouth, the glint of an eye. An urchin like me, affecting a higher breeding. I sat down and introduced myself; he introduced himself in turn. He was a journalist and a baronet, and though the latter title was obviously a lie, I decided to try my luck with the former.

"You know," I said, as we lay in bed together some time later, "I want to be honest with you. I can tell you are homeless and desperate and think me a man of some value. Your guise is quite successful; your game, less so. You are, however, in luck, for I am in good mood and in possession of a room that could use an extra tenant. There is also the small matter of a book I've been writing. Tell me, dear fellow — what do you know of rhyme and meter?"


End file.
